They both climbed out, pocketing their holsters as DeMarco crossed, limping, to the driver’s side, and Jayme to the deep shade twenty yards away along the tree line. He then pulled the car alongside her and powered down the window.
“He might or might not spook if he sees you,” DeMarco said. “If he does, it’s because Friedl told him about our last visit.”
“If he spooks,” Jayme said, “he’s our man.”
DeMarco nodded. “He might or might not be armed. Protect yourself. Whatever it takes.”
The steadiness and intensity of his gaze made her smile. “You too,” she said.
ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR
“I’m curious about your relationship with Todd Burl,” DeMarco said. He stood with his back to the southern wall of windows in Friedl’s solarium. Friedl, on a wicker settee with cushions decorated in huge orange, yellow, and blue bougainvillea blossoms, was forced to gaze directly into the light if he wished to look at DeMarco, which he seldom did, and then only askance.
Three bamboo ceiling fans kept the cooled air moving as it seeped through vents near the ceiling. Tall ferns and ficus plants and four miniature lemon trees filled the spacious room with a scent of the tropics. The soft hum of the fans’ motors irritated DeMarco, as did the doctor’s wrinkled and humiliated presence.
“Specifically,” DeMarco continued, “why you allow him to work for you. Every other person I’ve spoken to says he can’t be trusted. One individual called him a pathological liar. Said he would sell his own children down the river if he could make a few bucks from it. I personally have witnessed him verbally abusing his children, and have seen evidence that he physically abuses his wife. In the meantime your own wife has made it fairly clear that he’s been skimming money from you, yet you refuse to do anything about it. How do you explain all that, Doctor?”
Friedl said nothing, his face cramped, eyes pained.
“Okay,” DeMarco said. “You want to know how I explain it? He’s blackmailing you.”
“No,” Friedl said, but with his gaze on the marble floor now.
DeMarco waited a full minute until Friedl lifted his head a little, raised his eyes to meet DeMarco’s.
“Let’s talk about those seven unfortunate girls,” DeMarco said.
Friedl’s wince was discernible.
“Here’s how I think it happened,” DeMarco said. “Feel free to stop me when I get any of it wrong. You grow up with your only real friend the daughter of your family’s live-in maid. Her name is Beatrice but you call her Bee. She’s a very sweet but fragile black girl. With a heartbreaking condition.”
He paused, giving Friedl time to correct the description.
The doctor said nothing.
“Over the years,” DeMarco continued, “you grow very close. In truth, you come to love each other. And as your bodies mature, you find another way to show that love. Living in the same house, your father away at his practice all day, your mother playing tennis and socializing, you have plenty of opportunities for that. Was she paralyzed below the waist?”
Friedl sat motionless, eyes again hidden, left hand rhythmically pulling on the fingers of his right hand.
“Either way,” DeMarco said, “there were things you could do. Her mother’s busy cooking, cleaning, probably does all the shopping too. So opportunity is not a problem. And for once you don’t feel like such an awkward, homely boy. She means everything to you.”
Friedl leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. He sniffed. Started breathing through his mouth.
“After she’s gone, you’re all grown-up, making money hand over fist, but nothing makes you feel the way she did. Nothing makes you whole. You throw yourself into your work, buy this place, maybe restore it as a kind of monument to her. Expect to spend the rest of your life here with just your memories.”
Friedl put a hand to his throat, massaged it so forcefully that DeMarco could see the skin redden beneath the doctor’s fingers.
“In the meantime,” DeMarco said, “you hire Todd Burl. As far as you know, he’s a good guy. A little too talkative maybe. Too buddy-buddy. And one day he gets to talking about sex, a couple of bachelors sharing their secrets, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that. Except that your secret is an unusual one. You’re even a little ashamed of it now that you’re older. But it’s an urge and a desire that has never faded.”
Friedl’s body sank lower. He dropped his hands into his lap, pulled and squeezed his fingers.
“And Burl, he’s a master opportunist. So just before your birthday in December 1998, he brings you a present. Or maybe you went looking for one together.”
“No,” Friedl said. “I never went. The first time was a surprise. After that…”
“After that you came to expect it. Looked forward to it, I bet.”
“I never asked him to do it.”
“You didn’t have to ask. He knew how to keep the boss happy. I’m betting he brought her to you in a wheelchair, didn’t he? Made it feel just like you and Beatrice again.”
Friedl said nothing, only a nearly inaudible whimper each time he exhaled.
“How long did you keep each girl here?”
The doctor’s head moved back and forth, back and forth.
“Just one night?”
A nod.
DeMarco said, “Because afterward you’re too ashamed of yourself. You’re not a boy anymore, you’re a grown man. You tell yourself you’ll never do it again. But you do. One birthday after another. Maybe you tell Burl to stop, but he won’t stop, he knows exactly how to play you. He’s got you now. Still, it’s all just buddy-buddy, isn’t it? Until you meet Dee on a trip back to your clinic in Mobile. She’s the real thing. And she thinks you’re wonderful. So you marry her and bring her here. You tell Burl no more birthday presents. You don’t need them anymore.”
DeMarco waited. By now Friedl was doubled over with his hands to his face, a fingertip in the corner of each eye, nose and mouth in the cup of his hands, breathing loud, every exhalation a small moan. “I tried to let him go,” he said.
“You mean you tried to fire him?”
Friedl nodded.
“Did he have video?” DeMarco asked.
Friedl’s answer was muffled in his hands. “He says he does.”
“He probably does,” DeMarco told him. “He found your weakness, exploited it, and now he’s got you over a barrel. You and your beloved Dee.”
Friedl looked up suddenly, face wet, hands trembling. “She doesn’t know any of this.”
“Of course she doesn’t. That’s what gives him his power over you.”
Friedl sank back into his hunched-over posture, and covered his whole face with his hands. “Oh God,” he said. “Oh God.”
DeMarco’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and read Jayme’s text: He’s coming your way on golf cart. Must have seen me. Will follow.
DeMarco pocketed the phone. “The girls,” he said, his voice a bit more urgent now. “I need to know about the girls.”
“They came because they wanted to,” Friedl told him. “Nobody forced them to do anything.”
“Does that include being killed?”
Friedl sniffed, dropped his hands. Lifted his head a bit, his gaze on the nearest lemon tree. “I gave him money for them, every time. Lots of money. I told him take them home. And he said he did. We never mentioned them again.”
“Out of sight, out of mind,” DeMarco said. “Until July 2014, right? You thought of them then, didn’t you? Even up here in your castle, you must have heard about it.”
“He swore they weren’t the same girls. He said the minister must have had something to do with them.”
“And you wanted desperately to believe that, didn’t you? Seven girls in the church, seven birthday presents. But it was only a coincidence, right? That was the only way you could li
ve with yourself. Especially after the news broke that they were all young black girls.”
Friedl was sobbing now, more vocally than ever.
DeMarco let him sob. He reached into his pocket for his phone, intending to send Jayme a text to call the sheriff for backup. But as he turned slightly to take the glare off his screen, a movement at the corner of the solarium caught his eye, a shadow sliding across the glass. He hurried to the window, four long, lopsided strides, and saw Burl riding away on a blue golf cart, driving with one hand while looking back into the glass.
ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE
DeMarco sprinted as fast as he could with one stiff and tightly bandaged leg, but the golf cart was fading into the greenery. Only twenty yards from the house DeMarco was already breathing hard, his vision watery, pain shooting up and down his shin. As he ran he told his phone, “Call Jayme.”
When she answered he said, short of breath, “I’m on foot chasing Burl in the golf cart. He’s trying to hide around bushes and buildings, but I think he’s headed for his truck. Where are you?”
“Still up on top but closer to the house now,” she answered.
The wavering spot of blue in DeMarco’s vision made a hard left off the corner of a building. “Shit!” he said.
“What happened?”
“He’s definitely cutting back toward the truck. He’ll be there in thirty seconds.”
“I’m moving. I have the barn in sight.”
“You have to get there before he gets to the truck! I’ll call the sheriff.”
She didn’t reply. He knew she had kicked it into high gear, was running full-out, the cell phone clutched in a fist or shoved into her pocket. He imagined those long legs eating up yardage.
Golf cart twelve miles per hour, he thought. Flo-Jo twenty-four. Jayme maybe eighteen?
“Go, baby,” he said out loud.
ONE HUNDRED FORTY-SIX
She saw the chest-high fence, the grazing llamas, one of them now looking up at her. Burl was twenty yards below, also watching her, the golf cart bouncing over uneven ground. She screamed at him to stop but he only lowered his head and kept going.
Quickly she assessed the situation. He would have to drive alongside the fence to reach the other side of the barn where his pickup truck was parked. She could maybe intercept him by leaping the fence, charging past the llamas and into the barn from the near side. But there were lots of maybes. Maybe a foot would catch on the top rail and she would go down hard, face in the dirt. For all she knew of llamas, maybe they would bolt, get in her way, knock her down, and trample her. Maybe she would run into the barn and find her progress blocked, no quick entry into the other side.
Her only other option was to run outside the fence on the uphill side and hope she could get a shot or two off at the tires as the truck sped away.
Screw that, she told herself.
Six strides from the fence, she held her phone to her mouth and asked, “Do llamas bite?” But DeMarco did not answer. Nobody answered.
With Burl’s golf cart moving past the rear corner of the barn now, the fence two seconds away, she could break stride long enough to shove the phone in her pocket, or she could—
She dropped the phone. Clamped both hands atop the rail, leaned toward her hands, and vaulted up off her left foot, right leg and then left rising as her momentum carried her up and over the fence. She landed solidly but facing the fence, spun around, and saw the llamas all at attention now, long necks stretched high, ears erect, big eyes full of wonder and fear.
As she turned and sprinted she slipped a hand under the hem of her shirt, felt the pebbled grip of her .380, simultaneously thumbed down the safety and slipped the weapon free of its holster.
She ran into the dim opening and immediately ducked and weaved to her right, then stopped short in a half crouch, weapon extended, sweeping back and forth. She was standing in a wide aisle running the length of the stalls, each with its door hanging open toward her. Maybe forty feet beyond the stalls lay the front of the barn, the walls lined with tractor attachments and tools, bags of feed and other supplies. Burl’s pickup truck was parked in full light, the tailgate open, the bed of the truck backed into the barn.
And then in the dimness a few feet behind the truck she saw movement against the left wall. The girl, Susan, the college student, had turned away from a wooden funnel-flow bin, and, white plastic bucket in hand, now stood motionless, eyes riveted on Jayme.
“Get down!” Jayme screamed. “Get back here to me!” Cautiously she stepped closer to the girl.
But the girl stood frozen. “What did I do?” she said.
And in that moment Burl lurched past the corner of the barn door, yanked open the pickup’s door, seized a shotgun from the rear window rack, pumped it as he pulled out of the truck, turned, and fired into the ceiling.
“Don’t move!” he shouted. And pumped another shell into the chamber. The empty shell clattered to the floor.
The girl cowered against the bin. Burl moved closer to the wall and closer to the girl, put Susan directly in front of him, his shotgun now aimed just off her left shoulder, directly at Jayme.
“Drop the weapon!” Jayme called. But he was too close to the girl, Jayme’s line of fire too dangerous.
Burl smacked the barrel against the girl’s arm. “Stand up!” he said.
She straightened but with shoulders still hunched, hands clasped to her chest. To Jayme he said, “You drop yours. Now!”
He was almost completely shielded behind the girl. Jayme thought, Where are you, Ryan?
“Now!” Burl shouted, and fired over Jayme’s head. Pellets rattled and ricocheted in the rafters as he pumped another shell into the chamber.
She raised her left hand into the air. Knelt slowly. Laid the .380 on the floor. Then stood with both hands shoulder high. Took a small step away from the weapon.
To the girl he said, “Start walking backward.”
Jayme said, “The sheriff’s department is going to be waiting for you at the security gate. You won’t get off the grounds.”
He said, “We’ll see about that.” Then told the girl, “Start backing up. One step at a time.”
Jayme knew he had other options. Drive off road through the woods. Return to the mansion and slaughter Friedl and his wife. Or hole up for a prolonged hostage situation.
She was betting on the off-road option. By now he knew those woods like the back of his hand.
She said, “Let the girl go, Todd. I’ll be your hostage.”
He pushed the girl into the truck. “Move over!” he told her.
She crawled across the seats, huddled against the passenger door.
Burl kept the shotgun aimed at Jayme. Looked into the truck for a moment, then back at Jayme. He told the girl, “Start it up! Turn the key!”
Jayme thought, He’s going to have to take his eyes off me to get into the truck. He has no choice but to shoot me first. And he’s going to realize that any second now.
She made another quick assessment: Looks like a twelve gauge. Spread approximately an inch per yard. Ten yards away. Direct hit fatal.
He stood with his back against the open truck door. Raised his left foot to the running board. He kept looking at Jayme, then glanced quickly at the girl, who, after starting the engine, still lay across the seat, her head close to the steering wheel. “Slide over!” he screamed.
Jayme thought, You’re not getting another one. And the moment he looked back at her, she shouted, “Get out of the truck, Susan!”
He pivoted, and Jayme dove for her weapon, seized it as she slid onto a shoulder, and fired two shots. The first pinged into the door. The second went into his right side, nipple high.
His knees buckled and he crumpled against the truck door but did not go down. He was all she could see now, everything around him blurred and dark, a man at the end of a
tunnel, now slowly turning her way.
Everything in slow motion. Everything silent and nearly still. Put two in the chest, she told herself. But waited for him to turn a few more degrees, expose his body to her.
And then the truck door slammed against him, slammed him forward into the side of the truck, and everything snapped back to full speed, the shotgun banging against metal, DeMarco crashing atop Burl, ramming Burl’s head against the truck bed’s exterior wall, Jayme on her feet, running toward them. The shotgun slipped from Burl’s hand, clattered to the floor, with Burl falling atop it.
Jayme held her gun on Burl while DeMarco climbed to his feet and recovered the shotgun, DeMarco breathing hard, trying to keep the weight off his injured leg. Burl lay on his left side, moaning and breathing quickly. With each breath, a suction sound issued from the bullet wound.
“Sucking chest wound,” Jayme said. “We need to get him over. Is it back or side?”
“Your training’s newer than mine. Your call.”
“Back!” she said, and they pulled him away from the truck and rolled him over. Jayme yanked up his shirt and covered the bullet wound with her hand. Then shouted toward the truck, “Susan! We need your help!”
The girl climbed out, came around the back of the truck, approached them gingerly, saw the blood seeping beneath Jayme’s hand, and backed away.
“I need a plastic bag,” Jayme told her. “Or plastic wrap. Something not too thick. And tape of some kind. Right now!”
The girl jerked as if slapped, then spun around and raced to the rear of the building. DeMarco, still trying to catch his breath, called for an ambulance.
ONE HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN
After pocketing the phone, DeMarco looked down at Burl, and smiled at what he saw. Despite Burl’s pain, the man kept patting his head with one hand, adjusting his hairpiece.
Walking the Bones Page 36
